


Another Life

by Zoe1078



Category: Outlander & Related Fandoms, Outlander (TV), Outlander Series - Diana Gabaldon
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-09-22
Updated: 2016-11-11
Packaged: 2018-08-16 17:03:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 20,450
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8110414
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zoe1078/pseuds/Zoe1078
Summary: An alternate universe in which Black Jack actually is Frank’s direct ancestor. Therefore, when Jamie castrates him, Frank is never born, causing enormous ripples in time that completely change the course of their lives.





	1. Prologue

_ “Through a blackening mist, I saw Jamie’s sword come down, graceful and deadly, cold as death. The point touched the waist of the doeskin breeches, pierced and cut down in a twisting wrench that darkened the fawn with a sudden flood of black-red blood. _

_ The blood was a hot rush down my thighs, and the chill of my skin moved inward, toward the bone. The bone where my pelvis joined my back was breaking; I could feel the strain as each pain came on, a stroke of lightning flashing down my backbone to explode and flame in the basin of my hips, a stroke of destruction, leaving burnt and blackened fields behind. _

_ My body as well as my senses seemed to fragment.” _   
  
_ Excerpt From: Gabaldon, Diana. Dragonfly in Amber, chapter 24. _   
  
I grasped at my belly, shrinking beneath my hand. How could this be happening? I knew with the first, gripping pain that my baby was in grave danger, but how could my womb empty so quickly? Blood pooled in the grass below me, but I blinked, and it was gone. I blinked again, and there it was. I shook my head. What was happening? The pain, too, came and left in waves, rocking me to my core one second, disappearing in the next. 

Then, in my haze, I caught a glimpse of my left hand, the hard that bore Frank's ring. It was gone. The ring was gone. My eyes flashed to my right hand, and to my horror, I realized Jamie’s ring was gone as well. I let out a strangled cry, but it was lost amidst the sounds of chaos. For I was not the only one screaming. 

The gendarmes had arrived, and the sound of the thundering hooves of their mounts pounded in my ears. They surrounded Jamie and commanded him to drop his weapon in the name of the King. At the same time, Magnus bent over me in alarm, yelling, "Madame! Madame!" as I fell. He tried to catch me, but there was nothing he could do. For as I held my hands before my face, looking for rings that no longer existed, I realized that I could see the branches of the trees above me through my palm. 

I was fading, just as my ring had already disappeared. "No... No! Jamie! Jamie!" But no sound emitted from my throat, because my throat did not exist. Not here. 

Somehow I could still hear, as if through a long tunnel, echoing. Jamie had finally spotted me, or rather, spotted what was happening to me. He was screaming my name. I saw him through a prism of light. The desperation on his face matched my own. But he could do nothing, because he was splintering, splitting into a trillion molecules.

Or rather, I was. 

"Jamie?" I called once more. 

I do not think he heard me. For there was nothing to hear. Perhaps he saw my lips mouth his name. One final time, I heard him helplessly cry mine. "Claire!"

And then I was gone. 


	2. Darkness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jamie recalls the events described in the prologue.

There was no light here at night. The guards would not spare the cost of candles or oil to illuminate prisoners of his status in the Bastille, and no one had sent money or provisions, so Jamie lay in darkness. While there was still daylight, some light filtered in through the tiny window overhead, but tonight was a cloudy, moonless night.

It didn’t matter.

No moon, no candle would reveal to him what had happened to his wife or to their child within her. He relived it over and over again in his mind: the sight of her collapsing to the ground, the way she'd curled around her belly, the horror on her face as blood began to trickle onto the grass. Even from a distance, in the midst of chaos, he had seen the deep crimson pooling beneath her. 

Until he hadn't. Until she began to fade, until she had become as formless as mist, until she had vanished before his very eyes.

Claire. His beautiful, brave, brilliant wife. Gone. 

No one would tell him what had become of her. He had screamed until his throat went raw, had threatened and thrashed and begged, but no one gave him news of her. For all he knew, she was dead, she and the bairn. Yet how could it be? How could someone as vibrant, as vital, as extraordinary as Claire be gone, just like that, in the blink of an eye? For that was how it had appeared to him. She hadn't been carried away, not that he saw. She had simply vanished while he screamed her name. 

Impossible. His eyes must have been playing tricks on him. Perhaps the heat of battle had given him a vision. One of the gendarmes must have plucked her from Magnus’s arms, and he simply hadn't noticed. Surely they had taken her to l’Hopital des Anges? Or back to Jared's apartments? Or perhaps she had never been there at all. Maybe it was simply the guilt. He didn’t regret maiming Randall, not after what the monster had done, but he had made Claire a promise, and then he had broken it. With good reason, of course, and once she learned why, surely she would forgive him? And he had kept his promise, barely. He hadn’t outright killed the sick bastard, no matter how badly he wanted to. Maybe his conscience had simply conjured a picture of her standing there to remind him of the oath he had made to her. After all, when the gendarmes dragged him past the spot where he had seen her collapse, there was nothing there. Not her unconscious body, nor any pool of blood.

And if there was no blood, she was well, was she not? She could not have bled to death as she lost their bairn. No! He refused to even think of it. He couldn't comprehend the magnitude of such a loss, so he tried in vain to convince himself that she was alive and well, and that in the morning, she would come to him. Surely she would not let him rot in a place like this without word of her. She would come herself, or she would send one of the servants to bring him news.

He slept fitfully that night, alternately dreaming of Claire's smiles, or touches, or images of her cradling their child in her arms. When he woke, hour after hour, only to find the night still enveloping him in darkness, he imagined that good news would greet him in the morning.

Inevitably, the morning came, as it always does, but no news, and no Claire.   
  



	3. 1947

The smell was all wrong. I was warm and physically comfortable, but there were too many chemicals in the air. It was too oddly clean. Anxiety gnawed at my gut and kept me from opening my eyes. I was afraid of what I would see, so I tried to continue sleeping, to stay in the realm between waking and dreaming. I dozed, willfully ignoring the truth.

A ringing telephone shocked me out of my stupor, and when I cracked open my eyes, I was crushed by the sight of bright white drywall. No eighteenth century Parisian apartment, this, nor Highland cottage.

The ringing stopped, but it was too late. I was fully awake, and with consciousness came knowledge and rational thought.

I was in the twentieth century.

For a time, I lay in the bed, simply hyperventilating and refusing to face the truth of what had happened. I knew in my bones, in my body itself, but the loss was too much to bear, so I buried my face in my pillow and cried.

When my need for air finally eclipsed my despair, I turned my head to the side and spotted a framed picture on a nightstand. In it, I stood with the arm of a handsome man around my waist. We were both in full dress uniform, by which I could tell he was an Army lieutenant. He looked faintly familiar, but for the life of me, I couldn’t place him. Tentatively, I pulled my hands from under the pillow, and to my horror, my right hand was bare. Jamie’s ring was gone. On the fourth finger of my left hand, there sat a diamond solitaire on a gold band. I could have sworn I’d never seen the thing in my life, nor the bedroom itself.

I froze, listening for any signs that I wasn’t alone. After a moment, I realized that, had anyone else been here, they surely would have appeared at the sound of my sobs. I wiped my eyes, carefully pushed down the bedsheets, and crept to the window. Before me was a residential street lined with automobiles and brownstones.

The sight of modern conveniences sent my stomach rolling with nausea, so I rushed into the hallway and barely found the bathroom before heaving its meagre contents into the toilet. Unwittingly, I clutched at my empty belly, which brought on a fresh round of tears, though I had already known what I'd find. The truth had come to me while I lay drowsing, and I had simply refused to admit it.

With shaking hands, I groped for the light switch, then looked at myself in the mirror. My hair was shorter than I had kept it in Paris, and tangled. I wore a simple white nightgown, which I immediately pulled off. No silvery stretch marks marred my skin, which was smooth and perfect. I didn't bleed. No cramps gripped my womb. None of these things happened. It was as if I had never been pregnant at all.

I hadn’t lost the baby. The baby simply never was.

* * *

 I don’t know how long I sat naked on the tile, arms wrapped around my knees. It could have been minutes, or perhaps an hour. I might have sat there until I passed out, and if I was lucky, I might never wake again, or so I wished.

Were it not for the ringing of the telephone, I’m not sure I ever would have moved. But it did, though I had no intention of answering. Instead I took the glass on the sink, pulled the toothbrush from it, and filled it with cold water, then rinsed my mouth and drank. There was this, at least. Basic need. Unable to think of what else to do, I shut off the cold tap and turned on the other. Within seconds, hot water began to flow. Such a convenience. Such a luxury. So totally unnecessary. I held my hands under the steaming water until my skin turned a bright, painful red. This gave me the focus to pull my nightgown back on. I needed to figure out where I was, and _when_ I was.

The next room was a sitting room, complete with small fireplace, two couches, a radio, and a coffee table. Bookshelves lined the wall, and there were two more pictures, one of the unfamiliar lieutenant, this time wearing a sweater and a big grin, and another with the two of us leaning together on a park bench. I wanted to smash the glass and burn the photos, but instead, I walked to the kitchen.

More modern conveniences greeted me. A small refrigerator, a gas stove, an electric mixer. None of these things held any interest in comparison to the open newspaper spread across the kitchen table. I picked it up and turned it to the front page.

The Times. The headline was large, proclaiming _Princess Elizabeth announces her Engagement to Lt Philip Mountbatten._ July 10, 1947.

I dropped the paper on the floor and sank into the nearest chair, finally admitting to myself the reality of what had happened. When Jamie had violently castrated Jack Randall, for surely that was what I had witnessed, he had erased Frank from existence. Never having met Frank, I had never honeymooned with him in Scotland. Never having travelled to Scotland, I had never visited the stones at Craig na Dun. Never having visited the stones, I had never fallen through time, had never met Jamie, had never… never… I curled around my empty womb and tried to remember how to breathe.

The phone rang, again and again. Had I the energy, I'd have ripped it from the wall.

Was it possible to lose something, someone, that had never existed?

So how did I remember? How did I recall the sensation of the child within me, the fluttering movements, the distinct motions and kicks? How could I remember Jamie’s hands on my belly, caressing tenderly, feel his breath on my distended navel while he spoke to our child? When I closed my eyes, how could I see his ocean blue eyes staring into mine, his wide mouth curving into a bright smile? How could I recall the sensation of his lips on mine, his fingers in my hair, his beard on my cheek, his very sex moving within me? How did I even possess the knowledge of such things, let alone long for them? How was it that I burned for someone who, by rights, I should have no knowledge of? Someone who was, at this moment in time, long dead?

The flash of the diamond on my finger caught my eye, and with it came the memory of the gold band that ought to be there. Oh, Frank! Jamie, at least, had lived a life, hadn't he? A life without me and long ago, but a life nonetheless. But Frank? While I had made my choice the last time I stood at the stones, and I had let him go, I never wanted this. I never wanted his very existence erased from the universe.

But was that truly what had happened? Was there any chance, any chance at all, that I was wrong? And if I was wrong about Frank, might I be wrong about everything else?

One thing, at least, I could attempt to verify.

The next time the phone rang, I picked it up and immediately slammed it back down. Then, with shaking hands, I lifted the receiver and asked the operator to connect me. And I waited. The seconds stretched out in agonizing fashion until a secretary brightly answered, “Oxford University Department of History, how may I assist you?”

“Can you connect me to the office of Professor Frank Randall?” My voice was hoarse and low.

“Excuse me, who?”

I tried to clear my throat. “Professor Randall.”

“I’m sorry, there’s no Professor Randall here. Perhaps another department?”

I felt as if the very walls of the room were closing in on me. Maybe I mumbled a goodbye or a thank you, or perhaps I simply dropped the receiver. _No Professor Randall. No. No._

Was this a nightmare? Was it the most vivid dream I’d ever had? Or was it the opposite? The entire life I remembered, was that the dream? Nothing made any sense. If Jamie had erased Frank entirely, how did I remember him? And I had obviously never travelled through the stones and never met Jamie. So how did I remember him? If we never met, did he remember me?

The thought brought me to my knees on the kitchen tile. The implications were immense, unknowable. What happened to Jamie? Had we actually met? Did he even know who I was? Did he have any idea that out there, somewhere in the vast stretches of space and time, there was a woman whose heart belonged to him, a woman who, in turn, cherished him with everything she was? When I disappeared, had his life reverted to whatever it would have been had I never entered it? Did he stay in Scotland? Did he ever go to Paris? And if he did, did anything happen as I remembered it? Had he dueled with Randall? Had he seen me disappear? If so, what had happened to him after the gendarmes had dragged him away? What became of him? Did he scream for me? Beg for me? Did he wait, locked in the Bastille, awaiting a wife who would never, could never come?

Never? Wait, why never?

I stood bolt upright, realization dawning. We had found each other once, against all odds, against the limitations of time itself. Could we find each other again?

  



	4. Paris

Jamie rolled over, displacing the covers and knocking a pillow to the floor. 

Wait. A pillow? Covers? There were no such amenities in the Bastille.

He abruptly sat up and discovered himself in the bed of a familiar chamber. He was in Jared’s Paris apartment, not a cold, dark prison cell. He immediately reached out for Claire, hoping against hope that he had just had a terrible dream, but her side of the bed was cool and empty. He threw off the covers as he called out for her. “Claire? Claire?!” 

It was still dark, and therefore late, or perhaps early. Where could she be? He slammed open the chamber doors, still yelling her name. The sleeping servants were roused by the commotion. Magnus poked his head into the hallway, blearily pulling a blanket around his shoulders. “Monsieur Fraser?”

“Where is your Mistress? Where is Claire?”

“I… Claire? I… I do not know. What are you doing here?” The butler looked just as perplexed as Jamie felt. 

“I dinna ken.” How he had fallen asleep in prison and woken up in the apartment? It was a mystery, but a mystery of secondary importance. First he had to find his wife, and then he would deal with the rest.

Suzette appeared around a corner. Again he demanded his wife’s whereabouts, but she didn’t know either. He sent her to the remaining servants for more information, and soon the entire household was awake and in chaos. No one had any idea what had happened to Claire, not even Fergus, who always seemed to know what was happening before it happened. They flitted about him, asking how he had gotten home, but he brushed them all off. He had no answers, nor did he care, not while his wife was missing. 

Then Phillipa, the newest maid, who had only been hired a few days prior, blurted out, “Qui? Il n’a pas de femme!”  _ Who? He doesn’t have a wife! _

Jamie rounded on the young woman with a roar. “Has everyone here lost their minds? My wife! I am looking for my wife, the woman bearing my child. Your Mistress, Claire Fraser! Tell me where she is!”

But he knew in his gut that somehow, she was right. He remembered vividly the moment Claire had faded from his vision, the terrible moment she had collapsed to the ground in a pool of blood, and then had vanished altogether. If that memory was true, then indeed, he had no wife. 

But he could not accept that. His memory was false, or the universe itself was wrong. God had given Claire to him, and He would not so cruelly take her away, not in such a manner. He demanded an explanation from Magnus, whom he had seen catching Claire as she fell, but the man’s memory was a haze, and he could offer no explanation. 

Jamie whirled back to his rooms and dressed hurriedly. Fergus grabbed his boots and brought them to him, asking where he had been. “Never mind where I was. Tell me, Fergus, the past few days… What’s important is Claire. Claire, and you. Are you alright?”

The boy only cocked his head to the side quizzically. “Milord?”

“After what happened?”

Fergus only blinked at him. “After  _ what  _ happened?”

“The… Randall. After what Randall did to ye.”

“Randall? Who’s Randall?”

Well. There was no way the boy was faking calm. He truly did not know what or who Jamie spoke of. As he pulled on a fresh shirt, Jamie tried a different tactic. “Never mind. He’s no one of import. Tell me, how did we meet?”

That stopped Fergus short. “ _ Pardonnez moi? _ Did you just ask how we met?”

Jamie knew it was a ridiculous question, especially considering the dire situation facing them, but an idea was beginning to take form in his mind. “Just tell me.”

“It was at Madame Elise’s. You were... selling wine?” It came out as a question, not a statement.

Selling wine. That was not what he remembered. What of Prince Charles? The Jacobites? The rebellion? “Is that all I was doing?”

Fergus frowned. “You've never sampled the wares, I do not think. Is that what you mean? I have only seen you there few times, always selling wine. Never customer.”

“And how did you come under my employ?”

Fergus furrowed his brow, struggling to remember. “You caught me with your little snake, the toy, no? You said you were in need of someone to find out what the other merchants were doing, what they were selling, what prices, and where you might be able to sell.”

“Is that all? How about the pickpocket's game? Stealing correspondence, and putting it back? From the Prince and the Duke.”

Now Fergus looked utterly baffled. “Milord? What Prince? The dandy that spends all his friends’ money at Madame Elise’s? And what Duke? You asked me to stop stealing when I took le Comte’s ring! I swear, I have not taken anything since!”

“Mmhmm.” Jamie frowned as he pulled on his boots. History, then, had been rewritten. He was afraid to ask, but nonetheless, he had to know. “And your Mistress. What can you tell me of her?”

“Milady? I have not seen her tonight. I cannot…” Fergus frowned. “I cannot remember the last time I saw her. Why is that? Oh, where has she gone?” Now he sounded positively alarmed.

“That's what I'm trying to find out. Go get dressed. We’ll go to l’Hopital. Hopefully we will find her there.” For surely she would be there, would she not? Working, perhaps, to serve the poor of Paris? Or, he feared, recovering from the pains of an early birth?

His heart clenched at the thought of the bairn. Though he had always wanted children of his own, and was filled with pure joy when Claire told him she was expecting, the reality of the child was not clear to him until he felt it move beneath his palm. At that moment, he knew he would do anything to protect them, to keep them safe. He swore it, both to himself and to her, and yet, what was that promise worth? He could only pray that she would be there, waiting for him.

While he took Fergus and the coach to l’Hopital des Anges, he sent Magnus to le Gendarmerie for two reasons. First, he wanted to understand why he had been released from the Bastille after his duel. How he had arrived back at Jared’s apartments was, likewise, a mystery to him. Second, he prayed that if he could not find Claire in l’Hopital, the gendarmes would have news of her. 

At this early hour, few carriages were in the streets. It did not take long to reach the hospital. He jumped from the coach before it had come to a full stop and raced inside, much to the surprise of the sleepy guard manning the entrance. He barged through the wards, loudly demanding his wife, until Mother Hildegarde emerged, urging him to calm. “Monsieur Fraser? What are you doing here at this hour?”

“My wife! I am here for my wife! Where is she?”

“Your wife? I…” Her brow furrowed. “I have not seen her in quite some time.”

“Did they not bring her here? She was bleeding. The bairn…”

The nun held up a hand. “Bleeding? When was this? Was she in pain?”

“When? I don’t know. It was… It was…” He realized he had no idea when he had seen Claire collapse, when he had been arrested, or how long he had been home. Had he been sleeping away the days while his wife lay somewhere alone, afraid, bleeding, perhaps even dying? “Fergus?” he asked helplessly.

The boy looked as disoriented as he felt, but offered, “It could not have been more than three days? Four, perhaps? Maybe less.”

Mother Hildegarde shook her head. “I have not seen her in that time, Monsieur. Tell me, what has happened?”

Jamie wanted to scream, but instead he reached for the wall, steadying himself. “I don’t know. I simply dinna ken.”

Hildegarde put a hand on his shoulder. “Here now. Come sit, and tell me everything.” She tried to lead him to a chair and called for tea, but Jamie refused. Claire wasn’t here, and therefore he could not stay. “If she isna within these walls, neither will I be. I will find her. Fergus, come.”

He left as swiftly as he had come, and they jumped back into the coach. At the end of the road, they parted ways. Jamie sent Fergus to the east, while he went west. He charged the boy with checking every hospital, every police station, and, worst of all, the catacombs, to look for Claire. He would do the same in the other half of the city. He tried to send Fergus in the coach, but the lad insisted he would go faster and learn more on foot, and off they went.

The search, even with the aid of the coach, took the remaining hours of night, and all the next day, and when the sun set once more, he still hadn’t found Claire. He was tempted to keep looking, but he told himself that his wife was most likely already returned to their apartments, and she was as worried over him as he was for her. He raced home eagerly, and by the time the coach turned onto their street, he had convinced himself that she would yell at him for scaring her as soon as he opened the door.

But it was Magnus, not Claire, that greeted him. The butler looked crestfallen upon the realization that Lady Broch Tuarach was not in the coach. “Monsieur, any news?”

Jamie shook his head. “No. You?”

As they entered the apartment, Magnus said, “Not of your wife. No one had any recollection of her. As for you, the police, they apologize for the mistake. They could not even find record of the charges against you.”

How was that possible? “And Captain Randall? What of him?”

Magnus only blinked at him. “Who, sir?”

“My opponent in the duel,” he explained. 

Now Magnus frowned. “Dueling? That is a crime in Paris, sir. I urge you to reconsider…”

Jamie waved Magnus off. He clearly had no memory of Jamie’s crime, nor of his mistress’ disappearance. What else had changed? Ignoring Magnus, he rushed into their chamber and flung open the door to the wardrobe. To his dismay, it was full of his own clothes, but nothing else. He opened the doors to the dressing room, every drawer, every cabinet. No dresses, no corsets, no bumrolls, no petticoats, no shifts. “Where are they?” he demanded, but no one could find a single one of her things. Her combs, gone. Her hairpins, gone. Her rouge, gone. Her shoes, gone. And worst of all, her medical kit, gone. Fergus followed him, just as perplexed and alarmed as Jamie, and he bade the distressed servants to find Milady’s belongings.

On his way back into the room, his foot knocked into something small and hard that rolled across the floor. He had made quite a mess during his frantic search, and he would not have picked it up were it not for the floral smell that immediately permeated the room. He bent down to retrieve a small tin whose lid had popped off.

Fergus peered around his shoulder at his shaking hands. “What is it, Milord?”

Jamie swallowed hard. “Marigold ointment.”

Fergus reached out for it in excitement. “One of Milady’s remedies!” He was right. The first time Claire had used it, she had rubbed it gently into his hands after he had hurt them during a fight. They had been collecting rents for Dougal, and until their sudden nuptials, he had spent the entire trip trying not to stare directly at the lovely Mistress Beauchamp. His hands felt much better under her soothing touch, but the rest of him had burned for her. She’d used it again after Randall destroyed his hand at Wentworth, tenderly soothing him with her touch in the wake of the trauma. And still, even then, he had wanted her. “But where are the rest of her things?”

“I dinna ken, lad. Perhaps we’ll find the rest of her wee kit when we find her.” Jamie capped the tin and clutched it to his chest. Here was his proof. This belonged to his wife, and he would return it to her when he found her. “Magnus!” he bellowed. “Get me a quill and parchment. I mean to send word to the ladies of Claire’s acquaintance. Tomorrow, have Suzette carry the letters. I must know what has become of my wife.” Somehow, he knew this was likely a futile exercise, but he had to try, and the discovery of the marigold ointment gave him hope.

It was only when he sat down to write that he realized his hand did not ache. He opened and closed it, made a fist, grabbed the quill, and dropped it. With none of those movements did he feel pain. With his other hand, he picked up the candle, and he examined the palm, the fingers, the skin. It was unmarred. Calloused, yes, from years of working with his hands. But the fingers were straight, and the skin unblemished. It was as if it had never been broken at all. 

Jamie pulled the tin of ointment from his pocket and stared at it. If his hand had never been maimed, what was this for?

 


	5. The Lieutenant

I closed the door against the ringing telephone and locked it securely behind me. As I made my way down the stairs, my legs felt strangely cool and bare in my short skirt. I had gotten used to more modest attire, but I was glad to be free of restricting corsets. Moreover, I was glad that donning clothes took only a few minutes, for I couldn't wait to be on my way. 

One flight down, then I stepped onto the street and found myself in a London neighborhood which I remembered from my youth. I wasn’t far from where Uncle Lamb had first taken me after my parents died. Perhaps I had chosen to come back here deliberately? If so, I didn’t remember. Would memories of this life return to me? Or would I exist with a blank hole in my past? I supposed it didn’t matter, for I wanted to leave it all behind as soon as possible.

After stopping at the bank and withdrawing a substantial sum, I wondered what to do for money on the other side of the stones, should I be so lucky as to make it through? Could I find a few old coins in a collector’s shop? Was it worth the time it would take to hunt them down? Perhaps I should just barter. When I returned to the apartment, I would look for jewelry.

The Tube station was only a block from the bank. As the car rattled along, I longed for the quiet of Scotland despite the speed of transport. Even the bustle of eighteenth century Paris was quieter than the mechanized age. Between the vehicles, telephones, radios, and televisions, I could hardly hear myself think. Even if Jamie didn’t await me on the other side of the stones, at least I would be free from this endless clamor. 

Ah, Jamie. What would he think of the subway? He had loved my stories of twentieth century technology, and had been in awe of the thought of people rushing about the globe by air, land, and sea. When I found him again (for I insisted to myself that it was a matter of  _ when _ , not  _ if _ ), would he remember what I had told him? Would he remember me at all? Or would I be a stranger to him? Now I regretted not packing my things before leaving the apartment. If I was prepared, I could leave straightaway for Scotland, but I had nothing with me.

These anxious thoughts were interrupted by a different grief when I arrived at Victoria Station. As people pushed past me, I remembered saying goodbye to Frank on a platform only yards away before a train carried me off to war. Yet, that had never happened, had it? I had never kissed Frank goodbye, because Frank never was. Who had seen me off? Uncle Lamb, perhaps? For he had died after I left, had perished in the Blitz while I was stationed in France. Hadn’t he? Or had that history somehow changed as well? Was he somewhere out there, alive today?

Now I was glad I didn’t yet have my things. Perhaps I could find out what became of him before I left, for, if there was any chance he was alive, I couldn’t just disappear without a trace. I owed him that much. So I purchased a ticket to Inverness that would depart two days hence. That should give me enough time.

On my way back, I tried not to worry about the journey, but failed miserably. Once through, how would I find Jamie? It seemed that I had lived an entirely different life. Had he as well? What would his life have been without me? Would he have found his way back to Lallybroch or fled to Paris? Would he still be at Leoch, carefully balancing between his two uncles? And if he was there, would he have wed young Laoghaire? My stomach churned with the thought. Was there any chance he hadn't met and married someone else? Or worse yet, might he have been hurt at the ambush at  Cocknammon Rock, or perhaps even killed? Or had he been hanged at Wentworth?

God! Might I get all the way there, cross the barriers of time, search the country for him, only to find that he had died? There were so many instances in which I had saved him, when he had saved me. Parted, could either of us survive without the other? I didn’t feel as if I could, only that I had to find him, and as soon as possible. Even if it wasn’t possible, I had to try. 

I was so consumed by these thoughts that when I returned to my apartment, I didn't notice it was unlocked, and I collided with a broad, suit-clad chest as soon as I walked through the door.

I looked up to see the Lieutenant himself, now dressed in civilian clothing. "Claire, thank God! I've been worried sick!" He pulled me into a tight embrace, asking, "Darling, where have you been? The hospital called me to say you'd missed your shift, and you haven't been picking up your phone. I thought the worst, since you're never late, but then I saw your suitcase on your bed. What's going on?"

I squirmed awkwardly in his hold, trying to figure out what to say, when the sight of him triggered a memory, a memory of meticulously picking shrapnel from the chest of a soldier. This soldier. I knew this man. He was one of my patients during the war. He had borne my interventions with typical British stoicism, but he hadn’t been entirely capable of restraining himself from making small grunts of pain and little winces of discomfort. He had tossed out a few dry jokes as I worked, but the procedure had been interrupted by a bombing raid, and we had had to take shelter together. Luckily, the makeshift hospital had not sustained any serious damage, though I had to finish patching him up by candlelight in a storage closet. When I finished, he had gently tucked a lock of hair behind my ear as he thanked me. Amidst the chaos of war, I remembered that his touch was tender. He had stared at my lips, and I knew he wanted to kiss me. But as far as I knew, I had pulled away, and that was the last I ever saw of him. Apparently in this timeline, it was not so, for he was right here before me.

I gawked up at him with my mouth agape, opening and closing like a fish out of water.

“Claire, are you all right?”

“F-Fine,” I stuttered. “Yes, I’m fine.”

Yet I didn’t appear fine, because he cupped my cheeks and tilted my head back so he could examine me closely. “Are you sure? You look a bit off.” Then he pressed his lips against my forehead, and I startled at the intimacy from this stranger. “You’ve no fever, I don’t think. Are you well?”

I managed to pry myself free, stepped back, and cleared my throat. “Yes, I’m quite well. Thank you for checking in on me, but as you can see, it’s quite unnecessary.” I gestured to the open door. “You can go.”

He was visibly taken aback at my reaction. “Go? But why didn’t you go to work this morning? And why is there a suitcase on your bed?” While I struggled to come up with a plausible answer, he spotted the envelope sticking out of my pocket, and he plucked it from my coat before I could stop him. “What’s this?” As he opened it to find a thick stack of money and a train ticket, in the span of just one second, his expression shifted from anxious concern to something much darker. “What is this?” he repeated.

“It’s nothing. Nothing to be concerned about.”

He frowned incredulously. “Nothing? This isn’t nothing. How many pounds is this? And what’s in Inverness, Claire?” As I struggled to come up with an answer, he added, “ _ Who’s _ in Inverness?”

“Un-Uncle Lamb’s solicitor,” I blurted out. “Something’s come up, and he’s asked me to take a trip up there.”

“Your dead Uncle’s solicitor?” Now he wasn’t just incredulous. He looked angry. Very angry. His voice lowered to a growl. “His solicitor is here in London, and you know that.” While I absorbed the confirmation of my Uncle’s death, he continued, “And you know I know that. You’re a terrible liar, Claire. Now tell me what’s going on.”

I tried to scoot around him, but he blocked my way. Hands fluttering about, I tried and failed to appear nonchalant in front of this angry stranger. “There’s nothing to tell. It’s just a quick trip about some of his interests in Scotland.”

Now he backed me against the wall. “What interests? Lambert had no interests in Scotland. So what is this about? Or should I ask,  _ who _ is this about?”

I reached up and tried to grab the ticket, but he was several inches taller than I, and he held it out of my reach. “I told you. Just a solicitor.”

“Do you honestly think I’m going to believe a solicitor asked you to come up to Scotland for Lambert’s interests, and though it’s really nothing, you missed work without letting them know? Do you think I’m an idiot?”

“Of course not.” I tried to muster up a modicum of indignation, but the truth was, I was nervous, and it showed. “I said nothing of the sort. But there’s nothing nefarious going on. It’s just a solicitor, and yes, it is important, otherwise I wouldn’t be going.” I tried to slide around him, but there was nowhere to go. Uncertain what else to do, I reached for the ticket again. “Now give me that.”

Suddenly, like a snake striking, he pinned my wrist to the wall, crushing the ticket between us. “A solicitor? Is this  _ solicitor _ the reason you keep postponing the wedding?” 

Now I was angry. What exactly was he accusing me of? As I tried to free myself, I snapped, “For God’s sake, the solicitor is just a solicitor. You’re being ridiculous and paranoid. Let me go!”

“If I’m being paranoid, then where’s the return ticket?” he yelled. “And why haven’t you told the hospital what you’re doing? Are you trying to run? Do you honestly think you can run from me, Claire?” To emphasize his point, he ripped the ticket in half with his free hand before grabbing my other wrist and slamming it, too, against the wall. “Tell me who the bastard is! Have you fucked him? You have, haven’t you?”

“I’ve done nothing! Unhand me!” I demanded.

Instead, he shifted to squeeze both my wrists in one large hand, and with the other, he yanked my hair back painfully to tilt my face toward his. “Don’t lie to me! Don’t lie! Who is he? Tell me! Who’s in Inverness?”

Now I was afraid. I instinctively struggled and squirmed to be free, to no avail. “No one! There’s no one! Let go of me!”

He let go of my hair only to wrap his hand around my throat, crushing my windpipe. As he screamed obscenities into my face, I struggled in futility, unable to free myself. My lungs began to burn for air, and my vision started to blur. Then I remembered the training I’d received in the Army. I dropped my weight, pulled him down by the hands he used to grip me, and brought one knee up between his legs, hard. He collapsed in a grunt of pain, but when I tried to make it through the open front door, he grabbed my ankle and tripped me to the ground. Clutching his groin, he slithered over me and slammed the door shut, leaned heavily against it, and snarled, “You’re going to regret that. Now you’re not going anywhere at all.”

I rose to my feet. He tried to rise as well, but he was still hobbled by pain. “Get out of my flat!” I yelled and pointed at the door. “Get out!”

He wasn’t about to leave, not of his own volition. Still bent at the waist and cupping his groin, he snarled, “You’re going to regret this. You’re going to regret it, I swear!” Then he rushed at me and buried his shoulder in my solar plexus to knock me over. 

I reacted without thought. I curled my knee as I fell onto my back, but it met his chest uselessly. He grabbed my flailing foot with an iron grip, but my other leg was still free, and with it I kneed him in the face. Blood started gushing from his nose, and when he reared back, I twisted free and made it through the door and down the stairs. 

Then I ran.


	6. Flight

While I sprinted away from my apartment, I looked back to see if the Lieutenant was following me, and in so doing, collided with an elderly woman. Thanks to the balance of her cane, I didn’t knock her to the ground, but her groceries ended up all over the sidewalk. “I’m so sorry!” I hastily grabbed her things and placed them back into her bag. “I should have looked where I was going.”

But she wasn’t looking at me. She was looking behind me. “Don’t worry, dear. In fact, I think you should come with me.” She took me by the arm in a surprisingly strong grip, and she pulled me across the street toward her home.

“But your things!”

“Never worry about them. They’re not important.” 

I twisted round to get them and spotted the Lieutenant barging through my front door and toward us. I heard him yell, “Get back here!” as she pulled me into her brownstone.

My neighbor waved her cane at him and yelled back, “Go home, Mr. Gregory, before I call for the bobbies!” Then she slammed and locked the door behind us, leaving him on her doorstep. He tried the knob, but it would not yield. He pounded on the wood to no avail, and for a moment, I was worried he might try to smash the glass to gain entry. But my elderly defender picked up her phone to show him she meant business about the police, and he stormed off in frustration.

As I stammered an incoherent apology, my neighbor sat me down in her parlor and peered between her drapes. “He’s leaving. Best stay here for a spell, Claire. Are you hurt?” I shook my head, though I wasn’t really sure if that was the right answer, and she patted my hand reassuringly. “Let me make you a cup of tea.” 

While she shuffled into her kitchen, I tried to slow my breathing and heart rate. What on earth had just happened? What was this life I’d made for myself? And who, exactly, was my fiance? Had he done this before? How had I responded? He had mentioned that I’d postponed our wedding. Was this why?

A few minutes later, my neighbor reappeared with a tray bearing two steaming cups of tea and a plate of biscuits. “With honey and lemon, just as you like it.”

Apparently we knew each other, or at least, she knew me. She’d said the Lieutenant’s name, so we must be familiar. “Thank you.”

When I took a few shaky sips and returned the cup to the table, she noticed the red marks on my wrists where he had grabbed me, and she frowned. Then she brushed my hair away from my neck and made a little noise of concern. “So. It’s just as I said, yes? It only gets worse, not better.” I nodded blankly. What had I told this woman of my life? What had she seen? She continued, “I take it you tried to end it again, once and for all?”

Again? I didn’t know what to tell her. Had I tried to break it off with him before? I must have. “I… I didn’t get that far.”

“How far did you get?”

She seemed kind enough, and I had no one else to talk to. So I told her the truth. “I bought a train ticket this morning, but he was waiting for me when I came back. He found it, and, well…”

“Mmmhmm. I can imagine the rest. I’m glad you got away. You can stay here as long as you need.”

“Oh, I can’t impose on you like that!” 

By the expression on her face, I understood she was a woman who was used to getting her way. “Don’t be foolish. It’s no imposition. Though if you bought a ticket, you’ve found a place to go?”

“Yes, in Scotland. I’ll have to get another ticket, though that’s no problem. He took my cash, but there’s enough left in my account for another,” I babbled.

“But he saw the ticket, right? So he’ll know where you’re bound? Perhaps you should go somewhere else.” 

Dear God, how dangerous was this man? Had I been planning an escape? He seemed to think so, and so did she. What had I gotten myself into? “No, it has to be Inverness.” Besides, I told myself, where I intended to go, surely he could not follow.

“What’s in Inverness?”

I gave her the only answer I could think of. “A reverend I’m familiar with.”

“Ah, that’s good.” She prattled on for a little while, giving me bits of helpful advice interspersed with her low opinion of my erstwhile fiance. I wanted to ask her more about us, about him, but couldn’t figure out how to do so without making it obvious that I recalled nothing of him. And ultimately, within the span of a few seconds, he had told me everything I needed to know. 

Eventually, even more eager to be on my way, I went to gather what was left of her groceries from the sidewalk and returned them to her. She stood on her stoop like a sentry, watching vigilantly for the Lieutenant’s return. She even tried to accompany me to my flat when I went back for my things, and she only agreed to let me go alone when I promised to wave at her from my window to show her I was safe. Indeed, when I parted my curtains, she was looking right at me. Somehow I did feel safer knowing she was watching over me.

My bedroom was utter chaos. Apparently the Lieutenant had ripped through the room before I’d gotten home. Scattered across the floor were clothes and papers. I picked them up, finding several letters from the Lieutenant himself. His name was apparently Wallace Gregory, and his letters dated from midway through the war to 1946. Had he expected to find evidence of another paramour? As far as I could see, there was no correspondence besides his, other than bank statements, bills, and pay stubs from a hospital nearby. I didn’t stop to read any of it, no longer caring to know anything more of my fiance. After the last encounter, I hoped never to see him again. 

My closet doors were flung wide. Inside, I saw an open footlocker that I actually recognized from my old life: it was the locker I was issued in the Army. Odd to see such a familiar object amidst the foreign ones. Some things, then, were indeed the same. I supposed everything before Frank had happened just as I remembered it? 

I shook away the thought. The lost memories didn’t matter. Nothing in this life really mattered. I wanted only to return to Jamie, and to the life I remembered with him, or the life that we would make. The contents of the locker would prove useful to that end, as it contained several items that would serve me well in the Highlands, including a thick blanket, bedroll, knife, sewing kit, medic’s kit, and canteen. Even the canvas duffel tucked at the bottom of the locker would make a good pack, and though it might look somewhat out of place, would be much less conspicuous in the eighteenth century than my suitcase. 

What else should I bring? I had gotten so used to limitations of the eighteenth century that nearly everything I thought to take felt like a frivolity. And what would I do for clothing on the other side? I had been conspicuous enough in my “shift” the last time, and unless I went to a costume shop, I didn’t know how to find an appropriate dress. I settled on the longest, heaviest skirts I found, plus a few modest, long sleeved shirts, a nightgown that could pass for an undergarment, a wool coat, and a pair of sturdy boots.

That left the matter of money. Lieutenant Gregory had taken a substantial sum, but I hadn’t emptied my bank account, and modern English pounds would be worthless on the other side. Dated as they were, they could actually do me harm. I found a jewelry box on my dresser, but unlike my foot locker, it was unfamiliar to me. But some of the pieces inside I knew. There was an emerald ring, a gold locket, and a pair of pearl earrings that had once belonged to my mother, and a pearl pendant given her by Uncle Lamb to match the earrings. These were nestled amongst other pieces I had never seen, including several bracelets that resembled nothing I’d ever think to wear, plus a striking pair of gold filigree earrings and matching necklace. Perhaps they were gifts from the Lieutenant? I supposed it didn’t matter where they came from. It only mattered if they could serve me well where I meant to go.

Before I left, I only had two things left to do. It would be a simple enough matter to go back to the bank and buy a new train ticket to Inverness; I would even have time to make the last train of the day. Before leaving the flat, I wrote a short note of thanks to my neighbor, meaning to slip it through her mail slot. I should have realized that she would be watching out for me, for when I approached the door, she opened it and brought me in for a vise-like embrace, and she wished me luck. 

I was startled, but not enough to reject her compassion. I found myself hugging her tightly in return, and I thanked her for her kindness.

For the rest of the day, I kept looking behind me, certain Lieutenant Gregory would materialize to trap me here. But when I boarded the train to Inverness without incident, I breathed a sigh of relief, for he was nowhere in sight. My only regret in leaving London was that I didn’t know my neighbor’s name. I wondered if it would come back to me in time, for it seemed that we were close. For that matter, would I gain any other memories? Would I learn how I’d ended up with Wallace? Would I remember whether I had loved him? Would I be able to pinpoint the moment that love turned destructive, or might I find it had always been that way? Perhaps I would never know. 

As the train rolled along, I sewed hidden linings into my skirts and coat to hide my jewelry, and I wondered what else I was leaving behind. A job, it seemed. Friends, probably. Conveniences aplenty. Indoor plumbing. Modernity. Technology. But not Uncle Lamb. Not Frank. Nothing that mattered, surely, compared to Jamie awaiting me on the other side.

It was evening on the following day when the train finally arrived in Inverness. I thought about heading straight for the stones, but forced myself to be patient when I passed an antique shop and a pharmacy off the main square. Perhaps I could find a few more useful items for my journey if I had the patience to remain just a little longer. And I would certainly enjoy one last hot bath while I still had the opportunity. I checked into an inn on the north end of the square and indulged in just that.

The next day, I found the shops to be veritable goldmines of useful supplies. From the pharmacy I obtained aspirin and, when the proprietor stepped into the storeroom briefly, penicillin, which I pilfered from his stores. A local leatherworker provided a sturdy rucksack, and the butcher was happy to sell me sausages and cheese which would keep me fed. But just as I was about to go to the antique shop to find out if they had any old coins, I spotted Wallace stepping out of a car and into the square. I turned into a nearby alleyway and plastered myself against the wall before he caught sight of me.

Dear Lord. He had actually followed me here from London! My neighbor had been right. It was a good thing I didn’t plan to remain here for long. 

I watched as he entered the very inn in which I had stayed the night before, then ducked into a nearby bookshop. Part of me wanted to flee while he was anywhere in sight, to go straight to the stones, but I needed my things. Other than what I had just purchased, everything else was still at the inn. 

“Excuse me, lass, are you all right?” A familiar voice sounded from behind me. “Ye look rather fashed.”

I nearly wept in relief at the sight of an old friend. “Mrs. Graham!” Her name left my lips before I realized what I had done. 

She blinked at me in surprise. “Oh, have we met? I’m sorry. I dinna recall.”

“Oh,” I flushed, “It was a long time ago, the last time I was here. My name is Claire.”

“Ye look like ye’ve seen a ghost, if ye don’t mind me saying so, Claire.”

I glanced back out the window, where Wallace had appeared once more, glaring about the square. “Not a ghost…”

She followed my eyes toward the visibly agitated Lieutenant, and then to the bruises on my neck. “More dangerous that a ghost, I think? I take it you’re trying to avoid him?”

“Yes. I left him, left London and came here.”

“But he found you?”

I nodded. “It seems so.”

She took my hand. “Then come with me, dear.”

She plucked a parcel off the counter, then led me out through the back door and into her car. I sighed in relief once I was settled. “Thank you.”

“Now. You said we met before?” I answered vaguely about a brief meeting on a previous trip, and thankfully, she didn’t elaborate. She obviously had no recollection of the fictional visit, nor of me, but her kindness was just as I remembered it. “Is there anywhere I can take ye, or someone we can call?”

I admitted that I needed to get to Craig Na Dun, but that I couldn’t go until I retrieved my things from the inn. They were packed and ready to go, waiting by the door of my room, but I was afraid to show myself in front of Lieutenant Gregory. “Oh, I can get your things for ye, lass. Don’t worry yourself about it. Let me drop you somewhere safe for a little while, and I’ll fetch them for you.”

She was good to her word and dropped me at the nearby church. While she went to retrieve my things, I wandered out of the sanctuary and into the garden behind, which was adjacent to the rectory, and from there I spotted the good Reverend himself, puttering about in his study. I waved, and he returned it, but I could see that his eyes held no hint of recognition. 

Once Mrs. Graham returned with my things in hand, she asked me in for a cup of tea, but I insisted that I needed, more than anything else, to get to Craig Na Dun. “That man, he was asking after ye. The innkeeper’s wife, Mrs. MacDonald, told me so. So perhaps it is best to get you there as soon as possible.”

“Yes. I came here to get away from him, and in less than a day, he found me.”

“I can take ye. But why there? Do ye ken what’s there?”

I nodded. “The standing stones.”

“But I dinna ken how the stones can help ye, lest ye be a fairy.”

“I do believe I’m human.” 

I smiled, but she tilted her head at me curiously. “Aye, but what’s there for ye?”

I offered, “I’m meeting someone there.” It wasn’t strictly true, as I had no expectation that Jamie would be standing on the other side, awaiting my appearance.

“Ah. When?”

“As soon as possible,” I said firmly. 

She nodded briskly and left to tell the Reverend that she would be out for a bit, and she sent me to the car.

It took me only seconds to reach her vehicle, but seconds were all it took for Wallace to round the corner and spot me. He screamed my name and began to run at me, but Mrs. Graham heard him coming and darted toward me as well, much faster than I thought she’d be able to go. She slammed the door shut moments before he got to us. Wallace jumped in front of the car, and to my shock, Mrs. Graham didn’t hesitate. She pressed her foot to the pedal and aimed right for him. He had to jump out of the way in order to avoid being struck. He tripped over the curb and gawked at us as she spun the wheel in the other direction and sped away. 

“Mrs. Graham!” I said rather breathlessly. “How did you do that?”

She simply patted the steering wheel. “I do like this car. Reliable.” Then she winked at me cheekily.

When we arrived at the hill, she was reluctant to let me go since there was no one in sight to meet me, but I insisted, “I can take care of myself from here.” She didn’t believe me. I finally touched her hand and said, “Where I’m going, he can’t follow.”

Her eyes widened, and she looked back and forth between me and the stones. “Are ye saying what I think yer saying, Claire?” I simply nodded in reply. “Dear Lord… Truly? Is that how you knew my name? You said we’d met, but…”

“I’ve met you before, but you’re right. You haven’t met me.”

Then the whole story poured out of me. We sat together at the base of the hill, and as the sun moved across the sky, I endeavored to answer her questions. When I finished, she held my hands tightly and said, “Thank you for telling me. Hearing your story, ‘tis an honor. I do hope you find your man.” 

The hour was growing late, so I hefted my rucksack and bedroll onto my back and said, “Thank you, Mrs. Graham. Thank you for what you’ve done for me.”

She peered up the hill, where the sun had already dipped below the crest of the hill, sending rays of orange, purple, and pink through the stones. “Claire, it may be too much to ask, but, weel… May I… May I watch?”

“Of course you can.” I lifted the duffel strap over my shoulder, and I started hiking up the hill, Mrs. Graham on my heels.

By the time I reached the top, my heart, which had temporarily found peace in her company, pounded from excitement, dread, or a combination of both. I could feel the energy in the air, the strange magic that touched this place, the nameless force that had the power to rip me to pieces and, I hoped, put me back together again. 

“What does it feel like? Crossing?” Her voice was reverent. 

“Like every single particle in your body is torn apart by force, then slammed back in place. If you’re lucky.” 

I took one look back at the twentieth century, and at the woman whom I’d called friend in two timelines. If I found her again without even trying, surely I could find Jamie, who was my heart, my soul. 

“Good luck to ye, then.”

I squeezed her hand, then spun round once, just to see. To the north, the lights of Inverness winked on, one by one. A car made its way along the winding road at the foot of the hill, then disappeared out of sight. Far overhead, a plane flew by. And to the west, the sun sank into the clouds along the horizon.

That, at least, was the same. I kept my eyes on the glowing orb as I approached the cleft stone, took a deep breath, and reached into the void. 


	7. Memory

He was losing her. Slowly, inevitably, and without any rhyme or reason. It wasn’t only the lack of her in the apartment or the empty side of their bed. It was the fact that none of her friends could remember the last time they’d seen her. It was the staff at l’Hopital des Anges who could tell him nothing of her, and Mother Hildegarde, who only shook her head sadly when he came seeking news. It was Jared’s confused staff, nearly half of whom insisted that he had never had a wife, and several of whom recalled that there was a woman, but couldn’t remember anything about her. It was Fergus, who challenged nothing Jamie said, but looked increasingly concerned every time he was sent on a fruitless mission. It was his traitorous body, whose hands were both perfect and whole, but whose shoulder ached every time it rained. It was his own faulty memory, his inability to recall the exact placement of the wee freckles on her nose, or the shade of her lips the last time she had smiled at him, or the precise words she used when explaining a patient’s ailment. 

Were these the normal vagaries of memory, or was she disappearing from his mind just as she herself had disappeared? 

Days had passed, and still there was no trace of her. He made fruitless circuits between police stations, hospitals, the shops she used to frequent, and the catacombs. Everyone recognized him now, and he didn’t even stop to talk. They would see him coming, give him a pitying shake of the head, and he would go on his way. Today Jamie turned away from the police station, fingering Claire’s tin of marigold ointment in his pocket for reassurance. Just as it had been the day before, and the day before that, the trip was useless. The police knew nothing of his wife. Today the officer, exasperated by his daily visits, had the gall to suggest Claire had run off with a lover. He launched himself at the unfortunate man, and it was only his pathetic desperation that got him tossed out the front door rather than into a cell. 

Fergus awaited him in front of the apartments, and from the expression on the lad’s face, he knew it was bad news. “Did you find Mary?” Fergus nodded, but he didn’t yet speak. Jamie couldn’t believe how long it had taken to discover the whereabouts of Claire’s young shadow. It was as if she, too, had vanished into thin air. “Well?”

“She knows nothing, Milord.” Jamie could see that there was more, but Fergus didn’t continue. 

Exasperated, he demanded, “Nothing? When was the last time she saw Claire? Did she say anything about the patients they cared for? Perhaps there was someone of particular note?”

“No, I am sorry.”

Now Fergus couldn’t meet his eyes. “What is it? There’s something you’re not telling me. Just say it! Or perhaps I’ll talk to her myself. Where is she?”

“No! Do not do that. You will only upset her and upset yourself.”

“I canna possibly be more upset than I am already!” Jamie argued. “What exactly did you ask her? Maybe if I say it in a different way, or ask a different question, we’ll get something.”

Fergus protested, “She doesn’t know, Milord. Truly. She knows nothing.”

“She must know something! When was the last time she saw Claire? Surely you asked her that.”

Fergus looked stricken. “I did. You will not… You will not like the answer.”

“I dinna have to like it! But I must know! Fergus?” Jamie implored.

“Mademoiselle Hawkins,” Fergus reluctantly began. “She does not remember Milady. She did not remember me.”

Jamie felt his stomach rise into his throat. “What do you mean?”

“Exactly as I said,” Fergus answered sadly. “She said she does not remember any Madame Fraser. And she did not remember me.”

It was one thing for the new maid, who had only known Claire for two days, to forget her. But Mary? Mary adored Claire! And after what they had been through together, Jamie could hardly get out the words. “How… How is that possible? After everything…”

Now Fergus looked at his feet, and his voice was small. “Perhaps it is the same way that I do not. Milord, I do not remember meeting Mademoiselle Hawkins either.”

Jamie had to lean against the wall for support. “That isna… I canna believe… Wait! How did you even find her if you do not remember her?”

“I asked after her,” Fergus explained. “I asked, and it took me days. I learned the name of her uncle, and that she is engaged to le Vicomte Marigny. Once I found them, I found her.”

“She’s still engaged to that man? Even after what happened?”

Fergus startled. “After  _ what _ happened, Milord?”

Jamie thought to explain, then thought better of it. The rape didn’t matter now, perhaps had never mattered, for perhaps it never happened at all. He should be glad of that, but instead, he couldn’t bear it. 

Fergus’s voice rang in his head.  _ I do not remember...  _ She spoke of Mary Hawkins. Did she speak of Claire as well? Jamie didn’t want to know, so he turned into the apartment without a second look, and he shut his bedroom door against all who would see him.

* * *

 

Jamie stopped asking for news of Claire, unable to bear the confused expressions he received in response. Did no one remember her? Had they honestly all forgotten about her? It wasn’t possible. She was striking to see, with her flashing eyes, wild hair, opal skin, and undeniable beauty. But more than that, she was bold, brilliant, and free to share her opinions and her skills. She was simply the most vibrant person he had ever met. It was impossible to forget her. Even if they had met only once, and she had exited his life on the same day she entered it, he was certain he would remember her always.

Wouldn’t he? 

Or were the memories already leaving him? Every day, he feared he recalled a little less. What was the exact length of her hair when he had last seen her? Was it pinned up, or did it float around her head? What did she tell him about her patients at the hospital? When he had left Jared’s apartment to duel Randall, what was she wearing? What words had she used when pleading with him to spare Frank’s ancestor? He couldn’t remember the details, only the emotion. Only her pain. 

But he could remember the sensation of her lips against his, and all he had to do to see her whiskey eyes smiling before his was to close his own. His remembered the feeling of her curves pressed against his body, the softness of her skin, the tickle of her hair against his cheek, the sensation of her breath on his neck. These things were burned into his skin like brands. 

As he lay alone in their bed, her side conspicuously cold, he opened and closed the tin, over and over. He clung to it, to his proof that she had been here, once. It didn’t smell exactly like her, since she carried the scents of a dozen different plants on her at all times, and he wished he could recreate the bouquet. She was herbal, earthy, floral, and underneath it all, Claire. His heart ached with missing her scent, her laugh, her words, her heart. 

In the hall, he heard two voices. One was quiet, with a distinct French accent. Magnus. The other was loud, demanding, and spoke with a burr. Murtagh. “It’s time he was up! Half the day gone, and he’s still shut in there?”

He couldn’t really hear Magnus’s response, but it sounded as if the butler was trying to stop his godfather from disturbing him. But Murtagh knew it was his duty to disturb Jamie, and he barged into the room. “What are ye doing abed, lad? Did ye get drunk last night? You were supposed to meet me at the ship.” Jamie swung his legs onto the floor and ignored the question. Instead he began to pull clothing from his wardrobe. Murtagh continued, “Orvieto was a success. Sold all the wine, and at a good price.”

“Mmh.” Jamie hardly cared about the price of wine. He changed into a fresh shirt, wincing as he rotated his arm overhead. 

“Here, let me help ye,” Murtagh took the waistcoat and held it out for Jamie to dress. “Damn Rupert. The fool did ye no favors trying to fix your shoulder. Sometimes I think you’d be better off with it out o’ joint. Is it paining you much today?”

Jamie froze. “My shoulder? Rupert?”

“Surely ‘tis his fault your arm will never be the same, the way he forced it back together.”

Jamie grabbed at the offending shoulder. Hoarsely, he stated, “Rupert tried, aye, but Claire stopped him and did it right. Don’t ye remember?”

“Did you say ‘Claire’? What are ye going on about, lad?”

He didn’t know. Murtagh honestly didn’t know. As his heart sank, he hoarsely said, “Claire, my wife. On the day we met.”

Murtagh snorted. “Your wife? Did ye meet a French lass and elope while I was off doing all the work?”

Jamie collapsed to the bed. “ _ A dhia _ , please, no! You must remember! You must!” He raged, he begged, he pleaded, all for naught. Murtagh only asked what was wrong with him, and said the servants were concerned about him. Jamie pushed aside his incoherent, sputtering despair and tried to form an explanation. “‘Twas you who found her, so you must remember! Claire! The Sassenach, the Englishwoman. Jack Randall, that bastard, was going to rape her, and ye stopped him. You were the one rescued her and brought her back to me, don’t you remember?”

“Have ye hit your head, Jamie? That’s quite a tale.”

“No!” Jamie recounted everything, from the moment Murtagh had led her, shivering, wet, and half naked, into the cabin, to Claire fixing his shoulder, and then taking her back to Leoch. Rather, he recounted what he himself could remember, which, to his horror, was surely less than it was the day before. 

“And ye say Randall was forcing himself on her? And that’s how we found her? Weel, that does sound like something the bastard would do. But that’s no’ what happened!”

“Then what of this? What of this?” Jamie yanked the tin from his pocket and thrust it in Murtagh’s face. “Where did this come from?”

Murtagh just blinked at the object. “What is that?”

“Marigold ointment!” Jamie yelled. “It was hers! One of her herbs, for healing!”

Murtagh frowned, “I dinna think that proves a thing. ‘Tis just a wee bauble. It might have come from anywhere.”

“No! It came from my wife, and I have to find her!”

Incredulously, Murtagh said, “Jamie lad, there’s no one to find! But if ye want a woman, Paris is full wi’ them!”

“ _ Ifrinn! _ ” Jamie had to restrain himself from striking his godfather. He clenched his fists so hard that he nearly drew blood with his nails digging into his palms. The pain was centering, but he wished for more, for he realized with sudden clarity that he deserved every pain he suffered and more. “I need Claire, and she needs me. Something’s happened to her, and it’s my fault, do ye ken? It’s my fault she’s gone. If I hadn’t… If I didn’t… If I’d just listened to her! She begged me not to, and I promised her I wouldn’t! But I broke my vow, and now she’s gone! So I have to find her, do you see?”

Murtagh tried to place his hands on Jamie’s shoulders and gently said, “I think ye need a rest, Jamie...”

This only triggered Jamie to shove his godfather’s hands away. In a rage, he threw Murtagh out of the room and called for Fergus. Surely the boy remembered. He had loved Claire. Surely he hadn’t forgotten her. “Tell me true! What do you recall of your mistress?”

Carefully, Fergus began, “She is beautiful, Milady is, but tongue of an adder. And a healer, a good one.”

“Thank you! Yes, that she is. All those things. Tell me more.”

“She’s English, and with child…”

Jamie nodded eagerly. “Yes, the child! Our child! Keep going! And then help me remind Murtagh!”

Woefully, Fergus shook his head. “But I do not remember more. Milord,” he said haltingly, “what I know, I do not know if I truly know these things, because of myself, or because of her, or if it is simply that you have told me?”

Jamie insisted, “You ken your mistress, because she was here! She was!” 

“I, I believe you, Milord,” Fergus tried.

But it wasn’t what Jamie needed to hear. “I dinna want ye to believe me, I want ye to remember her!”

After tossing Fergus out as well, Jamie collapsed on the bed with his head in his hands. Now he was certain. It was happening just as he feared. One by one, they were all forgetting her. He would hold out the longest, he would fight, but in the end, his memories of her would slip away like so many grains of sand. He couldn’t stand it. He launched himself across the room, this awful room that bore evidence of a bachelor life, which held no traces of his beloved. He ripped the covers from the bed, cursing them for holding no trace of her scent. He tore a drawer from the dresser, furious that it contained none of her things. He opened the wardrobe and flung his own clothes to the ground, desperate to see a petticoat or shift among them. When there was nothing left in the room to throw, he stormed into the next one and collapsed at the desk, ripping apart paper after paper, none of which bore Claire’s delicate, deliberate script.

Jamie had to hold onto her, had to keep her memory alive in his mind, had to remember her so he could find her. For the only tragedy greater than losing Claire and the bairn was losing the very memory of them. It was unconscionable, unacceptable, unfathomable. Yet it was happening, hour by hour, bit by bit, and he knew it. Already he had lost so many precious moments and exquisite details, every one of them cherished and vital, slipping away from him like so many grains of sand. 

Just before he tossed the inkpot across the room, realization dawned. He didn’t have to let the memories go. He could set them down here, on paper, always come back to them. He would commit the words into his brain so that he could keep Claire on the page, and in his heart, forever.

He scrambled to gather the remaining sheets of parchment, and he wrote, and wrote, and wrote. He had started at the beginning and tried to go in a linear fashion to tell their story, but he frequently became diverted, losing himself in musings about her humor, her character, her spirit, her strength. He poured his heart and soul onto page after page. Long into the night, he transferred his love for his wife onto the parchment, and he stopped only when exhaustion dragged him into sleep, his head settled on the desk before him.

Some time the next day, when he had been writing for hours, still dressed in yesterday’s clothes, a tentative knock came at the door. He had refused to admit anyone for nearly twenty four hours, had not even bothered to take the trays of food they left for him in the hall. “Go away,” he snapped.

But Fergus would not. “Milord, I’ve brought someone.”

He ignored the boy. Unless it was Claire herself, he didn’t want to stop writing for a moment, afraid that as each second passed, he lost a little more of her.

Fergus continued, “You told me to find out about the marigold ointment, do you remember?”

Jamie fingered the tin, warm in his pocket. His last remaining piece of Claire. Then another voice joined the first. “Monsieur Fraser? Can you tell me what happened to your wife?”

Now he scrambled to fling open the door. “Raymond?” The little apothecary was peering up at him with a frown on his face. “Where have you been?”

“Travelling,” he answered abruptly. “But I felt something shift, and I return home to find…” He peered into the destruction in the next room. “Where is your wife? Where is the Madonna?”

Jamie grabbed him by the arms and spun him around. “You remember her? You remember Claire?”

“Of course! I could never forget such a woman!” Raymond looked positively insulted at the implication, and he gruffly freed himself of Jamie’s grasp. “Now, where is she?”

“Gone. She’s gone. Please, you must help me find her.”

Raymond led him back to the chair and pushed him into it. Jamie was shocked at how strong he was, despite his size. “Now. Tell me everything.” Jamie started babbling incoherently, trying to censor himself from revealing Claire’s secrets, but the apothecary had no patience for his evasion. “ _ Arretez! _ I said ‘everything’. Tell me  _ everything. _ ”

Slowly, carefully, Jamie did just that, since he realized that he had nothing left to lose. He told Raymond everything he knew, from Claire’s bizarre arrival through the stones, to her knowledge of events yet to come. Midway through the strange tale, he finally realized that Fergus had never left the room, and indeed, was staring at him with wide eyes. He lost his place, uncertain how to proceed, until Fergus prompted, “Do not stop there! What happened next?” And he realized the lad believed every single word.

When he was done, Master Raymond sat back and stroked his chin. He stared off into the distance, but he said nothing. 

“Please, can you help?” Jamie pleaded. “Can we find her?”

Raymond was silent for a while longer before he finally said, “No,” and Jamie’s heart sank, his last hope fading away like mist. But then he continued, “You cannot find her. It is not within your power to go where she has gone. But perhaps, just perhaps, she can find you. And if I know my Madonna at all, I think she may. Which means you need to be where you can be found.”

* * *

 

Sailing from LaHavre was as miserable as he had feared, in more ways than one. Master Raymond graciously agreed to travel with him. Using ginger and peppermint, the apothecary was able to quell the rebelliousness of his stomach to a modest degree, but there was nothing nothing to ease the pain in his heart. Nothing would help that but Claire herself. Nor would anything restore the memories that he continued to lose, day by day, hour by hour, minute by minute. When he wasn’t stumbling to the railing to empty the contents of his stomach, or lying in his berth clutching his abdomen, he was frantically reading and rereading what he had written, or adding to the disarrayed pages. But trying to focus on his own script only made his sickness worse, and he feared that the little he remembered was morphing from fact to fiction. Soon the memories would be gone altogether, and then, what would he have? Nothing but a stack of papers. Would he read them later and think they were the ramblings of a madman? 

He rolled onto his side and closed his eyes, trying desperately to see her in his mind’s eye. Smooth skin, fine as opals. Whiskey eyes, sparkling at him, teasing him. Pink lips, spreading into a smile. A delicate little tongue, moistening those lush lips. Wild hair, curling about her face. A regal neck, ripe for marking with his teeth. Beautiful breasts, perfectly filling his palms. A narrow waist, easily encircled by his hands. Feminine, flaring hips, leading round to a luscious, round arse. Slim thighs, wrapping around his hips...

Lord, how he wanted her! He wanted her in his arms, his heart, his bed, wanted her like he'd never wanted anything in his life. 

And somehow, in this life, he had never even met her! He was stunned by this fact, for fact it was. He had finally come to accept it. These eyes had never looked on her before. These lips had never pressed against hers. These hands had never held her. This tongue had never tasted her. This body had never pressed close to hers, had never known the exquisite bliss of joining with hers.

But just because he accepted that he had never actually met her, he refused to accept that he never would. For they would find each other, and then he would make her his, forever.


	8. Lallybroch

It was happening just as Jamie feared it would. His memories of Claire weren’t just disappearing, they were being replaced by those of a life without her. One day he didn't know how he had come to live in Paris; by the next, he suddenly recalled riding away from Leoch with Murtagh. That evening, he remembered over-eager attentions of young Laoghaire, and the day after that, the anger of Collum and Dougal came back to him. Soon he remembered almost everything from that time. He had taken a beating for the girl out of pity, and she had thereafter clung to him like a barnacle. He'd made the mistake of kissing her, and she acted as if it was a promise of betrothal. Every time he turned around, she was somehow there, blushing and pressing her chest against his arm. He was flattered, and bonny though she was, something about her didn't sit well with him. She was far too presumptuous, and his godfather thought they were a terrible match. He found out how right Murtagh was when he went looking for her one day, and before she realized he was near, he overheard her speaking of him. As he listened, he realized she didn't know him at all, nor did he know her. When she moved on to gossiping about other lassies, he discovered how petty she really was. She sounded downright cruel. In the back of his mind he could hear his father's voice telling him that when he found the right lass, he would know. Now he had nothing but doubts about Laoghaire. So when his uncle Collum grew displeased with him in the wake of his absence from the Gathering, and he ran across one too many Redcoat patrols, he reached out to his cousin in Paris. Laoghaire was devastated by his departure, but as he and Murtaugh left MacKenzie lands, Jamie felt only relief.

He should have been comforted by the return of these memories, but instead, he felt only devastation. For Claire was missing from every one of them. His notes told him that she had brought him lunch in the Leoch stables, but for the life of him, he had no idea if it happened once, twice, or dozens of times. Apparently she sat with him during Gwyllyn’s performances in the evenings, and if his lengthy descriptions told him anything, he spent far more time staring at her than listening to the bard. Yet he knew not what they had whispered to each other. He wrote that he watched her wandering the gardens, searching for herbs, but didn’t think he’d ever visited the gardens. When he pictured the stables, the fields, or the Great Hall, he could not visualize her in any of them. And though he had referenced multiple trips to her surgery, he had no idea what the surgery looked like, for it stood empty after Davie Beaton died. In fact, the very image of Claire was fading from his mind. He had written about wild brown hair, a sweet smile, and striking eyes, but for the life of him, he could not remember the exact shade, nor could he envision her smile. He had no idea exactly how tall she was. Did she fit just beneath his chin, or did she stand only as high as his chest? His words spoke of a luscious body, but her form had faded.

Thank God Raymond was here. He knew everything, somehow, not only why Claire looked like, but who she was and what had happened to her. And even if Jamie didn't remember Claire herself, all memories since she disappeared remained intact, including his desire to find her. For his need for her was as strong as ever. He felt the very shape of her as a hole in his heart, though he knew not what shape she made, and he was certain that nothing and no one could fill it but her.

Fergus interrupted his morose thoughts. “Does it always rain in Scotland? Every day?” 

Jamie waited for Murtagh to answer the lad, for he was used to his godfather’s enduring presence at his side, but Murtagh had stayed in Paris to mind Jared’s business. Jamie held out his hand to catch the cool drops in his palm. Rain fell from the second they spotted England’s shore, continued as they ported in Edinburgh, and had drenched them every moment since. It made the going even slower than usual, since the wet pathways were as much river as road. “Not every day, though more often than not, aye. But I’ll gladly take all the water in the world raining down on my head over the water rolling beneath my feet, ken?” Though he would be well pleased if they could go a little faster. He wanted to arrive at the stones before Claire did. For surely she would come to him? And what would she do if there was no one to receive her on the other end of her dangerous, impossible journey? Before, the first person she found was Jack Randall, who provided the worst possible greeting. No, that wouldn’t do. He needed to arrive before she did.

As Raymond’s horse stumbled in a sinkhole hidden beneath a puddle, he added, “We may be better off finding a boat and rowing down this road.”

The master was an invaluable resource, though not all his news was welcome. He explained what had happened to Claire when she disappeared, and in so doing, confirmed Jamie’s worst fear. He had, indeed, caused her disappearance. When he castrated Captain Randall, he erased Frank from existence, and thus reversed his influence on Claire’s life. Frank never took Claire to Scotland, to the stones, and to Jamie himself. Once undone, her story was gradually lost, rewritten as history was rewritten, sending unknown consequences rippling away from them. Those who had barely known her, like Phillipa, lost their memories of her immediately. Others took longer to forget, but inevitably, they would. Now most recalled her only from Jamie’s ranting, not from any true memory. Soon Jamie’s would fade completely as well, and the only person who would know what had happened was Raymond himself. 

Jamie went to sleep that night consumed by guilt, fear, and confusion. Not only had he broken a vow to the person he loved most, he had effectively killed someone she loved, and he had sent her to a place he could not reach her. His punishment for this sin was not only the loss of Claire herself, but all knowledge of her. And as time passed, his memories of Randall had faded along with those of Claire, so he recalled none of the events that had led to the duel. Such violence had never happened in this lifetime, save the flogging, leaving him bewildered as he searched for Claire. 

More than this confusion, though, he missed his wife, missed the very idea of her. Was it possible to lose someone he'd never had? Someone who wouldn’t be born for nearly two centuries, who had yet to exist?

He fell asleep pondering these impossible questions, and in his sleep, his pain finally receded. For he dreamt a dream of her, of finding her, of reuniting with her, of living a life with her, of loving her. Only then did he find peace, for in his dreams, Claire was by his side, and he was whole. 

It finally stopped raining on the day they reached Craig Na Dun. Jamie hoped it was a sign from heaven, that Claire would appear on the horizon along with the sun. But when they reached the top of the hill, it was empty. 

While Jamie stared at the cleft stone, Fergus ran between the others, touching each one. The first time he did so, Jamie yanked him back in a panic, afraid he would vanish before their very eyes. But Raymond placed a hand on his arm, saying, “He is safe. As are you.”

“What if I don’t want to be safe? What if I want to go to her?” Jamie asked.

Raymond only shook his head somberly, then turned back to the stone. He was careful not to touch it. He circled it, examined it from every angle, and tilted his ear close, as if to listen. He even held out his hands toward it, though he made no contact. And after several minutes, during which he demanded silence, he proclaimed, “Someone was here. Someone passed through.”

Jamie, who had been looking to the small cabin at the foot of the hill as a base from which to await her arrival, spun around eagerly. For the first time since he’d lost her, his heart filled with hope. “Claire? It must be Claire!”

Raymond frowned. “I cannot tell. The stones do not tell me who used them to travel, nor in which direction they went, only that someone did. ”

Fergus exclaimed, “Who else could it be? It must be! It must be her! That means she’s here!” 

“Possibly,” Raymond answered cautiously.

Jamie knew he ought to be careful, but he couldn’t slow his racing heart. “Where? Where do we find her?”

Raymond lowered his hand to his side. “I do not know where she is. She may be somewhere in this time, but more I cannot see.”

“No, she’s here! She’s here somewhere; we just have to find her! When? When was she here?”

The Master shrugged. “It is hard to say when the stones were used. No more than a month.”

“ _ Dhia!  _ Then where is she?” Jamie began to pace. “How far could she have gone?”

“In a month?” Fergus asked. “I could go a long way in a month.”

“Aye, so could she. She’s a resourceful woman. She could go anywhere she wants.”

“Which would be…?” Raymond prompted. 

Definitively, Jamie answered, “To me. She’ll be looking for me, ken? For she’ll remember me, as I remember her, aye?”

“ _ Oui.  _ For a time,” Raymond added.

“For a time?” He had never considered that her memories would fade as well. What would become of her if he didn’t find her before she forgot everything? How would she care for herself? Even with all her mental faculties about her, she was brash and bold and rushed headlong into danger. What sort of trouble would she get into, an Englishwoman traveling alone, with no natural sense of caution? And after she forgot him, she would also be disoriented and confused, not knowing why she wandered through eighteenth century Scotland when all her memories resided in twentieth century England. He had to find her, for both their sakes.

Fergus asked, "So where would she look for you?"

"I dinna ken. Lallybroch? But she kent I havena lived there in years. Leoch? That’s where I was bound when we first met, but Collum and Dougal were suspicious of her. Kept her trapped."

"Paris, then?" Fergus wondered aloud. 

“ _ Ifrinn! _ ” The blood drained from Jamie's face. What if they had somehow passed each other on the road, going in opposite directions? He couldn't stand the thought. "If she went to Paris, she’ll have needed transport. She'll have been seen. Let's find out." 

They rode to Inverness and went directly to the town's hub of gossip: the tavern. A sturdy fellow about ten years Jamie's senior served both ale and rumors of all kinds. Indeed, he recalled the young Sassenach well. "Striking, she was. Clever, too, and traveling alone. I made her an offer to stay, but she said she was looking for her husband. Shame."

"Aye, she was looking for me!" Jamie said eagerly. 

The older man narrowed his eyes at Jamie and leaned forward. "Are you the one who made those marks on her neck? Because if ye are, you had best leave now, 'fore I make it so you never can."

Now his heart dropped into his stomach. "Marks on her neck? What marks? What happened?"

The horrified shock on Jamie's face was enough to convince the publican that he wasn't the assailant. "Someone got his hands around her throat, ken, and the wrists, too. By the look of it, he must nearly have choked the life out of her." Jamie demanded to know the identity of her attacker, but the publican held his hands in the air. "Whoever he was, I never saw him. She was alone. I thought she must be running from whoever did that to her, that it was her man done it, but when she said she was trying to find her husband, not get away from him, I didn't know what to think. And here ye are!"

“And Claire already gone, and in danger! Trouble follows her, and when it doesn’t, she goes looking for it! Who could have done that to her? I have to find her before something worse happens. When was she here? Did she say where she was going?"

"A fortnight, perhaps? No more than two. I dinna ken quite where she went, but when she made it clear she wouldna stay, I bade her find Peadrus MacGuinness, the peddler."

Mr. MacGuinness wasn’t home, but his wife was. She described Claire as very kind and very bonny. Her husband had given Claire a ride out of town in exchange for a salve for his rheumatism. “She showed me how to make it myself. Worth more than gold, ken?” The woman pointed them toward the road leading out of town. “She said she was looking for her husband’s family. An estate west of here.” It wasn’t the definitive answer he’d been looking for, since both Lallybroch and Leoch lay west of Inverness, but it was a start. At least he knew not to return to Paris to chase her shadow. 

As they rode away, Jamie couldn’t help calm the frantic beating of his heart, but he wasn’t sure if it was from anxiety or excitement. Would he even recognize her when he found her? Would she recognize him? Might they even see each other, perhaps come close enough to touch, but pass without recognizing each other? Or would he know her the moment he saw her? Would every memory of their other life come flooding back to him? Would he feel her presence as soon as she was near? Surely his lonely heart would know its beloved. It must, for with every hoofbeat, he felt himself moving closer to Claire. 

If he had been alone, Jamie would have ridden through the night to reach Lallybroch. Fergus would have done so gladly, but neither Raymond nor his mount were up to the task. They made camp by a peaceful loch, and Jamie tried to sleep while his companions rested and the horses took their fill of water and oats. But he couldn’t sleep. The clouds had finally parted, and as he lay on the ground, he stared up at the stars. Was Claire looking on these same stars tonight? Did she take comfort, just as he did, that they had somehow found one another in the immensity of time, and that they could do so again? As he watched the twinkling lights, he heard her voice low in his ear, telling him that it took thousands of years for the light of the stars to reach them, and that some were actually long dead. He didn’t know quite what she’d meant, and as he finally fell asleep, he thought to himself that when he found her, he’d have to ask.

Despite his haste, he slowed his horse to a walk as they approached Lallybroch. His stomach clenched, for he couldn’t know what he’d find. Not only had he no idea if Claire awaited him here, he hadn’t seen his sister in years, and he didn’t know how she would greet him. He wasn’t even certain she’d speak to him, since he had never written her, not even after he had arrived safely in Paris.

Broch Tuarach grew steadily closer despite his snail’s pace, and Fergus distracted him from his sullen, anxious musings with a steady stream of questions about anything and everything they passed. His answered were clipped and brief, but he gave them anyway. And soon enough, they had arrived at the main house.

Jamie sent Fergus to stable the horses, took a deep breath, then went straight through the front door. He was surprised that no servants were there to greet him until he heard a child’s wail issuing from the back hall, and he moved instinctively toward the sound. 

Everyone had gathered in the kitchen. They were clustered around the high table, where a toddler Jamie had never seen was sobbing into his mother’s neck. But Jamie hardly noticed the boy or his mother, his own sister Jenny. Instead his eyes were locked on a woman bending over the boy’s injured arm, a woman with alabaster skin, delicate hands, a narrow waist, and wild brown curls shielding her face. A woman he had never seen before, someone he had never met. A stranger. 

He heard her speak before he saw her eyes. She nodded at the servants on the other side of the table. “Cold water. Fetch me a bucket of cold water and my medicine box.” English, then. To another, she said, “Tear me strips of clean linen.”

They rushed to follow her order. The water was brought straightaway, and she plunged the little boy’s arm into the water to cool it. She cooed, “That was very hot, wasn’t it, darling? Don’t worry. We’ll make it all better,” then cupped his cheek in a tender gesture that made Jamie’s heart clench. 

Soon another servant returned with her box, and she began to root through it. But apparently she didn’t find what she was looking for. “Where in the bloody hell…” she muttered under her breath. For some reason he didn’t understand, her cursing brought tears to his eyes.

When it was clear she didn’t have what she needed, Jamie pulled the tin of marigold ointment from his pocket and shouldered his way through the small crowd. “Is this…” he tried, but no sound came out. He coughed, which didn’t draw her attention, and tried again. “Is this what you’re looking for, Mistress?” he asked, and extended it toward her back. His throat had gone so dry that he didn’t recognize the sound of his own voice, it was so hoarse.

She turned without looking up, so the curls falling into her face still blocked his view of her. “Oh yes, thank you,” she said perfunctorily. When she took the tin from him, her fingers brushed his, and something warm and full settled into place in his chest.

“Aye.” His voice cracked on the single word, but she didn’t notice, absorbed once more in assisting the little boy. She carefully drew his hand from the bucket and dabbed it dry. Then she gently applied the soothing salve to the burn and wrapped it carefully in strips of linen. Watching the healer tend to the child brought a vision before his eyes, a vision of a woman lovingly massaging marigold ointment into his own wounds. He closed his eyes, and he could feel her touch. This woman’s touch. 

Helpless, Jamie dropped to his knees. 

The healer tied off the lad’s bandage and placed a kiss on the linen. “There. It’ll be as good as new in just a few days, alright?”

Jenny, whose back had been turned to him a she supported her son on the high table, lifted him up to take him away, then stopped short when she spotted her brother kneeling on the ground. Faintly, he registered that her belly was swollen with child. Her eyes went wide with shock. “Jamie?” 

Tears had sprung to his eyes and closed his throat, so he nodded wordlessly. Before him Claire froze, her spine as stiff as a board.

“What are ye doing here, brother?”

The healer still hadn’t turned around, so he cleared his throat. “I’m looking… I'm looking for my wife.”

Finally, finally she turned to him, but her eyes were closed. Perhaps she was terrified of what she would see, or what she wouldn’t. Despite her reticence, he took the fist she clenched at her side, and he pressed his lips to it in reverence. She made a little choking noise, and her trembling hand slowly opened in his. As his tears fell onto her skin, he realized they had never met, and with an uncontrollable smile, he pressed his forehead to the back of her hand and introduced himself. “I am James Alexander Malcolm Mackenzie Fraser, Mistress.” When he looked up, her lovely whisky eyes met his, and he fell headlong into their depths. “And yours, if ye’ll have me.”

 


	9. The Vagaries of Memory

I couldn’t believe it. He was right here before me. I had seen him in my imagination, in the night as I slept, in dreams which I could no longer convince myself were borne of memory. Yet somehow he was here. He had materialized at my feet and was offering himself to me. He stared up at me with a longing so intense that our hands shook with it. I knew my answer before I quite realized who he was. I wanted to tell him yes, that I would have him, but I couldn’t seem to speak. So I dropped to my knees to be closer to him. He pressed my hand to his lips over and over, saying nothing.

With my free hand, I pushed the curls of his hair away from his face. I meant only to look at him more closely, but something compelled me to stroke his cheek with my fingers, and the most beatific smile I had ever seen spread across his wide mouth as his eyes welled with tears. Now I couldn’t resist. I threw my arms around him. He hesitated for only a second, then returned my embrace with a choked sob. “Claire,” he whispered into my hair. 

We clung to each other as the rest of the world swirled around us, and I shut my eyes to block out everything but the feeling of him against me. I knew with absolute certainty that we had never before touched, that this was the first time I had ever lay eyes on him, yet we had held each other a hundred times. A thousand.

Since my arrival at Lallybroch, my memories had begun to shift. Each day I recalled more and more about my life prior to my passage through the stones, useless though it was. Memories of Wallace, of my nursing career, of my life in London, of Uncle Lamb’s funeral, these appeared like corks bobbing up in the water. Yet as each new piece of information surfaced, another slipped away. Not only had I forgotten Jamie, I could no longer even recall my purpose in coming to the estate. I was told I’d been searching for someone, for Jenny’s brother specifically, though I no longer knew why. 

But no matter how confused I was during the day, at night, I dreamt of him. I could no longer see the whole of him, but only parts: ocean blue eyes, or curling flames of hair, or a broad, beautiful back deeply lined with scars. I felt his touch, though, light as air and gentle as a mother’s kiss, or teasing and playful as an eager puppy, or his mouth on my body, desperate and hungry as a starving man. Sometimes I could see the very callouses on his fingertips and trace my hand along the veins in his forearm, but inevitably, when I shifted my gaze past his broad shoulders and onto his face, the features blurred.

Despite that, this handsome face belonged to that same man. I was certain.

When I finally caught my breath, I blurted out the only thing I could express. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, James Fraser.”

His answering laugh was the most joyous sound I’d ever heard. We still hadn’t let go of each other, so he pressed his lips against my neck and squeezed me tighter. “Oh, Claire. You’re here, aren’t ye? You’re no’ a dream, nor a story I made up in my head.”

“Or perhaps you’ve somehow brought me to life.” For indeed, for the very first time in my memory, I felt fully alive.

He took a deep breath, his nose buried in my hair, and continued murmuring, “ _ Dhia _ , you’re here. You’re here.”

A thwacking noise interrupted our enthusiastic greeting. Jenny had smacked her hand against the table. “But how is it that  _ you’re _ here, brother? She’s been here more than a fortnight, making herself useful. But you? Where have you been?”

Jamie startled with the realization that we weren’t alone. I looked up sheepishly at the dumbstruck household gathered round us. As we stood, I caught sight of a small, older fellow standing by the open door. He had a smile on his face that reached his twinkling eyes, and I knew he was important to me somehow, though I couldn’t quite place how. I started to move toward him, but Jamie held my hand tightly and wasn’t about to let go. 

Jamie struggled to answer his sister. He said only her name, and when he didn't continue, the servants began to chime in with questions and exclamations. 

Then I heard a tentative voice beyond all the others. “Milady?”

I peered around the throng to see a boy, delicate of feature, with a mop of curly brown hair and clear blue eyes, staring at me from the hallway. I didn’t know his name, and surely had never seen him before, but my heart swelled at the sight of him, and tears pricked my eyes. Instinctively, I wrenched away from Jamie’s hand and opened my arms. “Oh my God! Come here!”

As he rushed toward me, Jamie grinned at both of us. “Aye, Fergus. ‘Tis your lady. Claire.” The lad slammed into me, and we hugged each other fiercely. I hadn’t known I’d missed him until this very moment, but now that he was here, I was certain he belonged. 

“We found you! We found you! You came back!” he muttered against my shoulder. “I knew you would!”

Jenny blinked in confusion at the picture we made. “Weel, who’s this, now?”

Jamie answered proudly, “This is Fergus. He’s… he’s mine.” Then he met my eyes and corrected himself. “Ours. He's ours.” His words sent a thrill through my chest.

Jenny’s mouth dropped open in shock. “Your-- your son?” She had told me she hadn't seen her brother in years, but not more years than Fergus had been alive. Her eyes grew hard as she glared at Jamie, thinking that he must have impregnated me long ago and never told anyone.

“Of a sort,” Jamie answered cryptically. 

Now she was positively flummoxed. “Your wife and your son, of a sort? You waltz in here after how long, no word for years, letting me think you’re likely dead, no ‘hello’ when you come through the door, claiming a wife and son we’ve ne’er heard of… Have ye gone mad, or have I?”

Jamie had no explanation he was willing to give, perhaps had no explanation at all, so he simply stood before her. She was stiff for a second, her petite form rigid and vibrating. Then she punched him once in the chest before allowing him to drape himself around her. With a Gaelic curse, she accepted his embrace. “Oh, Jamie!”

But my Jamie wasn’t the one who answered her. Hearing his name, her son tugged at her arm and chirped, “Mam? Mam?” 

She pulled away from her brother to pick him  up, sniffing back a few tears. “Och, not you,  _ mo ghille _ . But I want you to meet your Uncle.” With a tip of her head, she presented the lad. “Brother, this is wee Jamie.”

Both Jamies stared at each other for several long seconds, one with wide, nervous eyes, the other with a hardening expression. “For me? You named him after  _ me _ ?” His voice was cold.

She smiled and cocked her head. “Who else? I missed ye, and I wanted the wee man to have something of ye!” But Jamie stepped away from them, bumping into the table and shaking his head as if to clear it. “I thought you’d be pleased.”

Jamie’s finger wobbled in the air as he pointed at his nephew, who made a small worried noise and buried his face in his mother’s neck. “Is that… Is he…  _ Ifrinn!  _ ” 

Jenny stiffened visibly at the curse, but before she could speak, a fuzzy memory pricked in the back of my brain, and I touched his sleeve in warning. “Jamie. Jamie, don’t.” He grabbed it tightly to steady himself, but instead of looking at Jenny and wee Jamie, he kept his eyes on our linked hands. “Where’s his father? Where’s Ian?” I asked, trying to diffuse the tension. “Won’t he be thrilled to see Jamie?”

Jamie released a huff of cautious relief. “Ian? Ian Murray?”

Jenny peered at Jamie as if he’d gone mad. “O’ course! How many Ians do ye know in these parts?” Then she sent one of the servants to fetch Ian. 

I offered, “He’s the spitting image of his father, isn’t he?” though it wasn’t completely true. He had as much of his mother in his features as his father, and was a perfect blend of both of them.

Jamie was skeptical. All he said in response was, “Ian Murray, ye say?”

Jenny eyed both of us suspiciously. “Aye, as I just said. Have ye been hit in the head,  _ bràthair _ ?”

“As a matter of fact…” he began, but he didn’t finish.

With impeccable timing, a throat cleared right behind me, and I turned to see Jamie’s older companion bow deeply. “Madonna, it is a pleasure to see you again.”

“Yes,” I agreed. Though I knew not of what he spoke, I was certain he was right. My spirits, already soaring, rose even higher at the sight of him. “A pleasure…”

“Raymond. My name is Raymond.” He bowed to Jenny as Jamie introduced them, and she immediately recalled her hostess duties and led us into the parlor. She asked Mrs. Crook for refreshments and to ready rooms for us, stuttering slightly when she tried to figure out where Jamie would stay: the Laird’s room, where she and Ian slept, my guest room, or one of the spare rooms?

Jenny couldn’t keep her eyes off us, and we couldn’t keep our eyes off each other. She wanted Jamie to explain himself, but he said that he couldn’t yet, not until we had a chance to speak alone. While Jenny was occupied feeding Fergus and Raymond, we slipped out the back.

As we made our way away from the main house and toward the tower, neither of us could quite figure out what to say. But it hardly mattered. Jamie held my hand in his, and we were here together, even if I didn’t know how or why. Nothing else really mattered. 

When we were out of earshot from everyone, I blurted out, “Who are you?” at the exact same moment that he asked, “How are you here?”

Gallantly, he insisted on answering me first. With a flourish, he told me again, “As I said, I am James Alexander Malcolm MacKenzie Fraser, and you are my Sassenach.”

I had heard the word many times as of late, but never with the kind of affectionate, loving tone, that Jamie used. I felt my cheeks flush, either from his words, or from the look he was giving me. I should have been annoyed at his presumptuousness in calling me his, but it felt right. I knew it in my bones, even if I didn’t know anything else about him.

“Jenny’s brother?” He nodded in response. “Then you must be Laird of Broch Tuarach.” No one had told me as such during my stay with the Murrays, but I understood that Ian and Jenny ran the estate without owning it outright. 

“And an outlaw.” I could imagine he could be quite a threat, with his intimidating size and obvious strength. Yet he told me this with a mischievous twinkle in his eye.

No one had told me anything of this, having a natural distrust of anyone English. “An outlaw?”

He cocked his head at me, assessing. “How much do ye remember, Claire? Of me?”

What could I say to him when I didn’t know the answer? For the past several days, even weeks, my mind had become increasingly clouded. I remembered travelling to this estate desperate to find someone, but the longer I stayed here, the less I understood. I remembered an impossible past, or perhaps it would be better to call it a future, another life, another man, another world. I had left that world in the most fantastical method and travelled to this time, but why, I could no longer remember. At one point I had meant to leave, to keep looking, but I had forgotten where I meant to go. And though Jenny and the other Scots were initially quite suspicious of an Englishwoman travelling alone, after I set the broken arm of one of the crofters, and the local midwife had fallen ill, Jenny had asked me to stay at the estate as healer, at least until her baby was born. 

I had heard whispers of her brother, rumors about the exiled Laird. Every scrap of information I heard about him riveted me, though I knew not why. There was a painting of him and his late brother hanging in the hall, but in it he was a child. Yet I couldn’t help but stare at it every time I passed, and I even went out of my way to see it. Something about his blue eyes captivated me. I saw them in my sleep, and I saw them before me now.

Honestly, I told him, “I dream of you. Every night.”

He exhaled a sharp breath, and his eyes crinkled with satisfaction. His thumb traced circles on the back of my hand. “As do I, Claire, of you.”

“How is that?” It was an impossible question, yet I thought perhaps he might have the answer.

Jamie actually laughed in response. “That’s quite a tale,  _ mo chridhe.  _ Do ye want to hear the whole thing?”

“Eventually,” I admitted. “But I’ll take the short version for now.”

He opened his sporran and handed me a thick sheaf of paper. “This is the long version. You can read it yourself, or perhaps we can look at it together, later. There’s more there than even I remember. But it’s our story, or what I could remember of it, at least.”

I was mystified, but I believed him even if I didn’t understand him. “Our story?”

“Aye.” He kissed the back of my hand again. “Claire, though we’ve not met before in this lifetime, this isna our first lifetime together. We found each other once before. We wed, we made a life together, a beautiful life.” His face fell, and he tentatively reached one hand toward my belly, and I felt its emptiness, its hollowness, all at once. “And… And… I broke a vow to ye,  _ mo ghraidh _ .” He dropped to his knees once more, but this time it wasn’t from joy, but despair. Though I knew not of what he spoke, my heart ached for him. For us. I tried to break in, but he kept speaking. “I made a promise to you, and I broke it, and I sent ye away from me. I didna mean to, and if I’d kent what would happen, I never would ha’ done so!”

I still didn’t understand, but I knew he spoke the truth. I knew where I had come from even if I didn’t know why. “The twentieth century? Is that what you mean?”

“I didna know! I swear to the Almighty Himself! I kent not what I did. But I sent ye away from me. I tore my own heart from my chest when I did so. And I’m so sorry, Claire! So sorry!”

I couldn’t pull Jamie to his feet. Instead of standing with me, he wrapped his hands around my waist and buried his face in my belly. Since I couldn’t embrace him, I ran my fingers through his hair and told him, “But I’m here now, Jamie. I’m here now. It’s all right. I came back. I came back to you. I don’t understand how or why, but I’m here. There’s the two of us now.”

Now he stood, gasping with emotion, and tugged me behind the tower to shield us from prying eyes. Tenderly, with tears sparkling in his eyes, he cupped my cheeks in his hands and said hoarsely, “Aye. We’ve found each other again. And I dinna understand all of it. I never have. But I know why. ‘Tis because ye are blood of my blood…”

“...And bone of my bone.” Where the words came from, I do not know.

That wide smile spread across his face once more. “I give ye my body…”

“So that we two might be one.”

Together, we finished, “I give you my Spirit, ‘til our Life shall be done.”

Jamie kissed me then, and every single emotion I had experienced with him, in this life or the last one, filled me all at once. It went on and on. When we finally parted, he kept me pressed tightly to him, and he said, “Claire Elizabeth Beauchamp, you are my heart. My soul. While we were parted, I was as a ghost, wandering the earth wi’ no purpose. Nothing mattered but you. Though we’d never even met, the absence of ye was worse than death. I’ve ken I’ve just found ye, and it’s quite a rush, but I want to be one wi’ you in every way possible, and never to be parted again. I want you to be my wife. Will ye marry me, Claire?”

Unbidden, the memory of another proposal surfaced. It came to me with perfect clarity: a British soldier kneeling before me with a diamond ring. It was romantic, dramatic, picture perfect, even. With Wallace, I had been happy, and I thought I was in love, and I suppose I must have been. In his way, Wallace had even loved me back. Yet he had never looked at me the way James Fraser looked at me now. My heart had never felt so full as it did in this moment, despite the fact that we had known each other less than an hour. There was only one answer. I had no hesitation, no doubt. I nodded at him, unable to find even the simplest word, and he bent to kiss me. 

Our smiling mouths met, and all thought, all memory, the past, the future, time itself, space itself, all of it fell away. In Jamie’s kiss I felt eternity, and I knew my wandering heart had found its home.


End file.
